Palace of Darkness (34 page)

The rock wall that cradled the city bent to the right, and she rounded the cliff and saw the traders and their market laid out before her, the first scene she had witnessed when she and Alexander emerged from the mighty crack in the mountain all those weeks ago. It looked the same yet very different now that she was no longer an outsider.

How hopeful I was that day.
And yet how different the present was from what she had imagined.

But there was no time for reminiscing. As on that first day, the sun would not linger in the west much longer, and the market had slowed its business.

A quick scan of the area and she found what she sought. A horse trader with several decent mounts. She approached with a bold confidence and asked the price of a black mare.

The horse dealer, a runt of a man with broken teeth, looked her up and down, took in her palace robes, albeit ripped and filthy. “Seventy-five denarii.”

She laughed. “Do you think I am the queen herself?” She halved his price, then looked away, as though searching for another trader. In truth, she had very little time for bartering, but to act the foolish buyer might draw more attention than she wished.

The scrawny man patted the horse’s side. “Fifty denarii, I could not let this fine one go for less.”

“Fifty, then.” Cassia pulled the pouch from her neck and fished out some of the money Malik had given her.

Seems so long ago.

She hoped her barter had brought the price down enough that she would not be noted.

When the money was exchanged, the horse trader handed Cassia the frayed rope that hung from the horse’s halter, but she shook her head. “Help me up.”

His bushy eyebrows lifted, but he cooperated.

Cassia had not ridden much, and she felt unsettled on her mount, but she had no time for training either. With a kick to the horse’s haunches and a pull on her head, she directed the mare toward the narrow crack in the cliff wall, where all who entered and left Petra passed. She trotted obediently, but once they had entered the slit in the mountain, she urged the mare to something faster than a trot.

The crowds traveling out of Petra were not so heavy today. Most travelers headed into the city.

For the Festival of Grain.

She kicked the horse into a full gallop, then clung to the reins. Her teeth came together in a jarring snap and her hair loosed and flew behind her.

The pounding of the horse’s hooves on the limestone paving cleared the way of pedestrians. She wove through camels and donkey carts, giving the horse direction but mostly giving her her head.

It had taken such a long time to walk through the Siq, she remembered. Each bend in the rock wall promised to be the end, then revealed another length of road to walk. But the swift ride in the other direction sped by, and she barely noticed the water channel
along the wall, the sculpted facades, the djinn blocks that had all been so fascinating.

The cliff walls spread apart and she flew out of the gorge onto the wider road that led toward it. Here the travelers thinned, and as the hour grew later they would disappear.

She rode out of the protection of the city alone, into the open desert, at the worst time of day.

Straight toward the enemy camp.

How long until she would see signs of the Roman encampment that lurked at the edge of Petra, waiting to swarm the city? She had not seen it when she and Alexander came to Petra, and this fact guided her direction now. It must lie somewhere they didn’t travel.

Certainly the Romans would have a challenge in taking the city, protected as it was by its natural walls. Roman legions must be positioned near every major Nabataean city, but if they could take the capital, perhaps they would have no need of other sieges.

The sun bid the desert good night at last and sank into its bed. The sky grew violet and a tiny crescent moon hung over the horizon, partnered with one bright star.

Cassia slowed her mad rush from the city, scanning the desert for signs of Roman life.

Where are they?

Seeing nothing, she continued east, though she did not drive the horse so fast. There was no sense in galloping in the wrong direction. The steep and rocky hills, pierced everywhere with caves and fissures, stared down at her like hollow eyes, and the pale strip of desert stretched like a barren carpet before her.

Slowed now, she had time to reflect, though she didn’t want to. Her palms grew sweaty in their grip of the reins, and she forced her thoughts away from the festival and the sacrifice.

Scrubby grasses poked out of the red sand, and her horse bent for a mouthful. She did not stop her. Her errand seemed foolish now. How had she thought she could save a city?

A wave of exhaustion settled on her, catching up with her from a day of tension and fear. She swayed in the saddle and half closed her eyes, wishing she could slip to the desert sand and sleep.

But the thought of sleep and dreams brought back her riverside walk with Jesus, and the tentative and newborn faith she had claimed in her cell.

Jesus, are You with me even here?

She wished for Him to walk beside her again but then realized the Spirit of God Malik spoke of so often had taken up residence within her and God was closer than a heartbeat. She smiled, filled again with the warm love that gave her strength.

On the horizon, Cassia thought perhaps she saw a fire. She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and leaned over her neck, as if she could reach the flame sooner.

Yes, it grew as she advanced! She urged the horse to full speed and soon saw that the fire blazed atop a sentry tower, built at the edge of a square-fenced camp.

The Romans.

She had no hopes of arriving unseen. With the sentry tower’s torch blazing and her a lone rider across the twilight desert, she only wondered how long until she was hailed and stopped.

The irony of the situation fell upon her. Early this morning Julian had entered the Petran palace claiming to have a message from Rome. And now she stormed the Roman camp with a message from Petran royalty.

Only this time, it was true.

THIRTY-EIGHT

A
S
C
ASSIA EXPECTED
,
A YELL WENT UP FROM THE POSTED
sentry at her approach to the Roman camp. She tilted her head back and met his look, wanting him to see she was a woman. There was, perhaps, less chance of a javelin being thrown at her if he knew.

The enclosure was built of wooden pickets—scarce in the desert so they must have been brought far—easier to build than a stone wall. She had seen the old Roman military camps in Syria. If the soldiers stayed long, they would indeed build stone walls. For now the wooden pickets sufficed as protection in the middle of a desert where attackers could not approach with stealth.

There was no gate, only a narrow opening in the wooden fence guarded by two soldiers who lowered their
pilum
at her approach in the dusky evening. Their red-plumed helmets and leather-and-iron breastplates seemed so foreign, so formal.

She slowed her horse, then slid from it, giving up any advantage she may have had and allowing them to see that not only was she a woman but a very small one, and unarmed.

“I have come to speak with your commander. I have a message from Petra.”

The two soldiers eyed each other, then laughed. “They have sent a slave to pass their messages? Rome will not be pleased.”

Cassia smoothed her robes and lifted her chin. “I am the mother of Petra’s next king, fleeing for my life and thus disguised.”

The other soldier inched his pike toward her, as though he would poke her to see if she bled. “And I am Emperor Trajan, come to check on my troops.” He jerked his head at his fellow soldier and grinned. “You there. You work too hard. Take the night off.”

His companion laughed and saluted. “Thank you, Emperor. You are most observant.”

A voice behind her turned Cassia’s head. Another on horseback approached and called out to the guards, “Are you two on duty or on holiday?” Cassia studied the newcomer’s horse, certain it had been another she had seen with the horse trader.

The guards looked over her shoulder at the new arrival. “Aw, Decimus, we’re only having a bit of fun with an Arab slave.”

Cassia whirled back on them, glaring. “I told you—”

“What did she tell you?” the man, Decimus, asked from behind her.

The leaner guard laughed and Cassia wanted to smack him. “Something about being the prince’s mother—”

“Turn around.”

His command was low but authoritative. Cassia turned.

The Roman!
The one she met in the palace storage room. Clearly he recognized her as well. “Who are you?”

She inhaled courage and licked her lips. “My name is Cassia. I am the mother of Alexander, son of Aretas, son of Rabbel, king of Petra. My son is next in line for the throne of Petra, and I have come to speak with the Roman commander about the future of our city and our kingdom.”

“You told me this morning they have taken your son. Who has taken him?”

“The new queen. She wishes to kill him and put her own son on the throne.”

Decimus shrugged. “What does any of this have to do with us? Before long there will be no king of Petra, only a governor of the new Roman province of Arabia.”

“That is what I wish to speak about. I believe it can be done without bloodshed. With no loss to your troops or the people of Petra.”

Decimus’s eyebrows lifted, and Cassia sensed strength in him but no danger. She would not say more. Not to him. “I wish to speak to your commander.”

“Search her.” Decimus slid from his horse.

When they were satisfied she was unarmed, the two guards led her into the compound, with Decimus at her heels.

The camp was large, with row upon row of leather tents pitched in a grid and a street of rocks and broken potsherds leading from the front entrance straight through the camp. A larger tent sat at the center, the destination of this impromptu street in the desert. She assumed this was the commander’s residence.

And it was there the guards led her. Heart pounding and legs shaking, her resolve slipped. Could she do this? Did she dare? She spoke for all of Petra. All but one power-mad queen.

The guards yelled through the leather tent, its flap was lifted, and she was pushed inside. The two sentries did not accompany her, but Decimus drew up behind her, a solid wall at her back.

Jesus, give me the words. Give me the wisdom.

The inside of the tent was considerably darker, as the commander had not yet had enough lamps lit. One brazier burned in the center on a small marble column, and Cassia marveled at the luxury inside this central residence. Did his soldiers know their commander slept on soft bedding and reclined on couches to dine from delicately painted bowls?

The man himself reclined even now, a bowl of wine on a low table before him and a small scroll in his hand. He looked up, attentive to his visitors.

“Ah, Decimus, you have returned.” He thrust the scroll aside and pulled himself to standing. Cassia studied him, from balding head to leather boots, and tried to read him quickly and well, waiting for any telltale throbbing in her head that always warned her of danger.

In his forties. Still fit.
He was attractive and knew it, confident in his authority. Not unkind or cruel. But determined, and perhaps ambitious. Her assessment gave her hope.

“Yes, Commander,” Decimus said, above and behind her.

“And I see you have brought something back from the city in stone.” His gaze traveled the length of Cassia, clearly curious.

“She arrived before I did, Commander. Though I did meet her while reconnoitering.”

“Hmm.” The commander circled in front of Cassia, still taking her in. “I do not know what to ask about first. The state of the city or this pretty little thing.”

Cassia lifted her chin. “They are one and the same.”

“Ho, ho! She speaks. And with fire in her eyes.” The Roman commander laughed and met Decimus’s look over her shoulder. “Perhaps you should leave us, Decimus.”

“As you wish, Commander Corvinus. May I only say that when I encountered her hiding in the palace this morning, she was telling the same story as she now tells, and I have reason to believe she speaks truth.”

The commander pursed his lips, looked between the two of them, and then dipped his head toward Cassia. “High praise from my most valuable scout. Let us hear what you have to say.” He flicked his hand toward Decimus, and the soldier bowed and backed out of the tent, leaving Cassia alone with the man who held her future in his hands.

Not so
, the Lord whispered to her. The thought gave her boldness
and the fluttering of her heart slowed. She found her fingers twisted together and forced them apart.

“Come, sit.” The commander extended a hand to his couch.

Cassia hesitated. She did not come for his hospitality and could see he had other things on his mind. She could imagine that months and even years away from their wives did not make Roman soldiers trustworthy in these situations.

In the end, she favored her first reading of him, that he would not be cruel. Lascivious, perhaps. But not cruel. She went to his couch and perched on the edge.